


Surge

by alchemene



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drinking, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Implied Sexual Content, Implied Voyeurism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Multi, Non-Consensual Outing, Party Games, They’re In Looove, Truth or Dare, consensual drug use, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25868164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alchemene/pseuds/alchemene
Summary: Whenever he was with Draco Malfoy, his temperature never failed to surge.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 68





	Surge

Everything was hot all over.

Harry burned—his skin inflamed, his dick burning. He was ignited. His breathing was warm against the bed sheets; the tree wood, the floor, the sky. The skin-to-skin contact was a powerful narcotic to him, and he couldn’t quite call himself an addict.

Because whenever he was with Draco Malfoy, his temperature never failed to surge.

* * *

It could have been the way the stars were aligned that very night. All he knew was that something astonishing had happened, because intoxicants were known to do pleasing things. But Harry wasn’t capable enough to carry the burden of the sweet-smelling fluids in his stomach for the night; he wasn’t haunted enough to feel the consequences.

All he knew was that Seamus had raised his sour-smelling cup and declared loss. Loss for the piss-poor party being hosted and his pissed high. It could have very well been the way Parkinson’s eyes gleamed with interest as he spoke.

“Party games,” Dean corrected, earning an excited look from Seamus who’d failed at expressing his thoughts.

Curious, but not horrified, Hermione replied. “Drinking games?”

“Yes, Granger, drinking games,” Parkinson’s red nails reflected on the Room of Requirements conjured lights when she tapped them on the table. The lights glimmered like a burning fire, though there was one near that lit up the multicolored chairs and seats. Parkinson’s was a black leather, Harry’s a soft, cushiony red, etc. It was comfortable enough—especially with the pale white walls and the dark brown rugs.

He still had no clue as to how he found himself there that night. He knew that as a member of Hermione's well-mocked club, he had to attend. Harry found it hard to keep track of everything they spoke about when he spent the majority of his time dozing away on his comfy sofa.

“And, I, for one, think that Finnigan’s proposal is a splendid idea. With adjustments, of course,” she added with a sniff, when too many imposing eyes laid bare on her.

“But Headmistress McGonagall said we weren’t allowed alcohol,” Hermione stressed, her hands held clenched tight together. Ron shifted beside her in uneasiness, all signs of his thrilled expression fading away into the distance. Many just appeared plain out annoyed with her imposal. “That means no intoxication.”

“Even infants understand the effects of alcohol, Granger,” Malfoy grouses, all but rolling his eyes when Harry and Ron set their eyes upon him. All thoughts of being elsewhere with Malfoy vanished under the premise that the arsehole wasn’t supposed to talk bad about his friends. Nonetheless, he still found himself fancying just one friendless night in bed reading _Seeker Weekly_ with the window open. “Have you not noticed the well-intoxicated state of almost everyone in this room?”

Not in Malfoy’s bed though; not with a warm arm wound around his stomach. Warm, and oh-so (not) pleasurable.

“We’ve all been through hell these last couple of months, Granger. I’m aware that you like to stick to your rigid morals, but some of us are more uninhibited to indulge ourselves in these types of behaviors,” she pauses, taking a moment of silence to glance at Hermione. “If only you’ll allow us the opportunity?”

Hermione was quiet for a moment, and then she sighed.

“All right.” When their glee became too apparent, she told them, sternness seeping from her every pore, “But just for this once!” They all ignored Malfoy’s rude snort into his hand.

Harry was surprised Hermione had even allowed it—by Ron’s face, he was too. Her flush was bright when the members of the _Inter-House Association_ cheered. He brought up his cup of water and cheered for her as well, because Hermione deserved it all and more.

“I think we should play Truth or Dare,” Neville blurted out, scooting forward on the floor in an eager manner to explain. “It’s a Muggle game where—!”

“Yes, yes, we know, Longbottom. We are ever so gracious for your suggestion, but we need more than that. Have you any way of, say, altering this game of yours with magic?” At his embarrassed meep, she turned her scrutinizing gaze elsewhere.

“Neville had a brilliant idea,” Ron defended, shutting up whatever Parkinson had to say; she sneered, but her attention was frayed.

“Ah, a great idea, you say?” Malfoy was slouched in his own black Victorian chair, head lolled on his fist and his legs crossed. A bored expression was painted across his face as he pinned Neville with his strunitized gaze. “Go on, Longbottom, do tell. We’d all like to hear it.”

Harry might’ve regretted taking interest in their conversation if he’d have known the end result. Yet since he couldn’t very well tell the difference between genuine interest or drawled sarcasm, he knew he had to save Neville. He set his paper cup on the floor beside him and looked to the panicked man in front of him. “Weren’t you doing a report in Charms for something like this?”

He’s happy to see the man’s face glow. “We could use a charm to tell when someone’s faking, maybe! There’s this spell that..”

“That’s not a bad plan, Neville,” Hermione interrupts, bouncing out her seat as she stands. “Perhaps we can prepare a box in the middle full of dares of our own, and charm it to scream when it detects lies!”

Her glee is shut down by Zabini’s amused murmur. “A simple bell will do, Granger.”

Her shoulders slump. She nods, “Right.”

In spite of the number of people in the room, it took a solid 15 minutes to set the charms via arguments and yelling (“I don’t care about your goddamn O.W.Ls scores, Granger, because your incantation is _wrong!”_ ). Now, a crisp white paper sat in his palm. It was to be written on and slipped into the slot of the box.

A truth was to be written on the front; the back a dare. Harry decided to go for sweet and simple.

_What do you like about yourself the most?  
Say 1 nice thing about the person to your right._

Once he was finished with his writing, he rose from his sofa and dropped the paper in as he sat down. He hoped their game wouldn’t take too long. Maybe someone would get too pissed to continue, and he was given the right to help them to their dorm.

Parkinson clapped her hands together when they were all compiled into one big circle. “Here are the rules: Draw from the box once you’ve chosen truth or dare and pick a paper. If you refuse to do your truth or dare once you’ve chosen, the last person who went will be able to create one for you.”

“If you refuse that one as well, you must take three of Finnigan’s special shots without a break and remove a piece of your clothing.” Some people, like Harry, felt nauseous at the thought of even drinking one of Seamus’ famous Black Out drinks..

There were a few murmurs that were canceled out by the sound of her pleased hum. “We’ll use a bottle to choose our contender. Longbottom is up first.”

“Wha—me? Why!” He spluttered.

“This was your idea; take responsibility.”

Although he appeared to be sick to his stomach, he closed his eyes tight and announced, “Truth.” When he snatched the paper from the opened box, he stared at it with horror. He didn’t have the time to yelp before it disintegrated and golden words filled the air:

_Who ate your flower?_

What kind of question was that? Harry’s simple questions then seemed much too inadequate in a situation that was becoming much more complex. With self-consciousness in his cheeks, he tried not to make it obvious.

“Well, Longbottom?”

“Um,” he sagged back into the legs of the chair behind him. “No one…” Harry felt a tug at his heart for the boy, because no one should have to be put in a situation like that.

Parkinson’s laugh boomed throughout the room, “A virgin? How precious!” No one else was laughing though.

“Sod off, Parkinson,” Harry snapped, his anger rising before he could calm himself. Hermione was narrowing her eyes in disgust while Ron’s fists did the staring. At their contempt, she bristled.

“Fine,” she lifted her lip at him, jerking her head at Longbottom who began to twist the pale green bottle posing as an innocent on the floor. Her bitterness would bite at herself as the slide of the bottle drowned her out.

It skidded to a stop at Hermione. “A-ha! Something tells me Granger is going to be amusing! Go ahead, give us an incredible show.”

As if Hermione wanted to best Parkinson, she lifted her chin and chose, “Dare.”

“Dare?”

She jerked her chin up, and, as it came down, a paper flew into her fingers. Then she paused. With twitching lips, her eyes darted to look as Harry as the paper turned to dust on her fingertips.

_Say 1 nice thing about the person to your right._

There was a round of snickers to go around, and even Neville looked to be chuckling at the dare. Harry wanted to collapse into himself, the mortification evident on his face. Zabini whipped around to gaze at Harry, delight bright in his eyes. “What do you think this is, Potter? A First Year's party?”

Hermione smiled at him, and moved her head to face Ron. “I think your eyes are nice,” she told him, and for a second they gazed into each other’s eyes.

“Ahem!” Seamus chortles. “If you two love birds are done, Hermione’s got a bottle to spin.” And Hermione did.

Harry then understood at that moment why everyone had taken the minute to laugh at him. His sense of libido hadn’t caught up with the situation—everyone else’s had. He was making nice with the game instead of dirtying it.

Over the next few turns, nothing happened to an extreme, but there were a few mentionable things. Padma Patil had to tell them the last time she masturbated and where—Harry wished he hadn’t known, lest he would still be able to look at the Gryffindor couch the same. Seamus and a few others felt different. They whispered in furious tones with leery glints in their eyes.

Blaise Zabini had to take his shirt off, which earned him a few catcalls and wolf whistles. He made a show of it too, canting his hips and flexing his torso. Harry had eyes; he knew Zabini was attractive. But when he opened his eyes, all he saw was blonde hair and grey eyes and pale skin. It was no surprise that he found his gaze wandering behind Zabini instead of at him.

Malfoy had been quiet sitting (a big surprise, that was) between Parkinson and Zabini. It had been many of the Gryffindors great pleasure to find that he was an odd mixture of old Malfoy and post-war Malfoy. Loud, but quiet.

Majority of the time, though, he had his face in Harry’s neck. Harry, in his personal opinion, thought that if he was touch-deprived, then Malfoy had to be the complete opposite. Always touching; feeling; grabbing.

Dean, whose embarrassment showed in his movements, shuffled back to his place, had to give the person to his left, Seamus, 1 spanking. The entire affair had been hilarious as Seamus screamed at Dean to _hit me already so we can sit our arses down!_ Dean had smacked him so hard that he’d obtained an actual limp back to his seat.

Now, the bottle rolled and rolled, taking everyone’s inhaled breaths with it. The bottle stopped, taking everyone’s exhales with them, because it’s nose was snubbing Draco Malfoy.

“Er,” Seamus stumbled, hand going to scratch his head. Was he always this awkward around Malfoy? “Are you playing, Malfoy? You don’t, uh, have to go if you don’t want..” _No,_ Harry considered, _it was more of an angry snap._

“I’ll go.” It was harsh and rude. _An angry snap._ He shifted up so that he could reach for the box sitting in the middle of their half-assed circle. “Dare.”

_Take off any article of clothing, or accessory, of the next person the bottle spins._

There was a shift, and then a quick murmuring as Malfoy followed the paper's directions and spun again. Harry was horrified to hear excited whispers of all things. He had experienced jealousy many times in his life, but this type of jealousy was a different breed.

He tried to reason with himself with the fact that Malfoy would never even ‘waste his time with such plebeians’ as he said in close frequents. He knew that although he sat quiet and still—like a good-boy who _did not_ want to be outed because of something as silly as unrepressed jealousy—he’d also sit with something as silly as jealousy in his veins.

It was like when a tide rose and rose, until it splashed down taking everything with it. To Harry, it was a green monster whipping it’s head and hissing at him, compelling him to take what he wanted and to fuck all of the consequences. He just wanted to grab Malfoy and take _and take and take—_

“Harry?” Ron shrieked, scooting closer and bumping Hermione. As if that would protect his friend from the hands of a Death Eater. “He can’t do that!”

There was chaos around him, but Harry found himself staring at the nose of the bottle in disbelief. It had to be an act of magic, he knew that. But who? He took a chance to glance up at Malfoy, only to find himself being stared at already.

The look itself made him want to hide somewhere else in fear of being swallowed up. Because at some point along the line of their relationship, he’d allowed himself to be consumed again He didn’t think he’d ever stop letting Malfoy devour him.

Parkinson, who looked at the redhead in mirth, a vicious smile proud upon her face. “Well, he could always take a dare from the last player.”

“Yeah!” Ron nodded in a haste, a nod that would solve all of the problems in the world. Hermione looked on in exasperation at her boyfriend, who ignored her and peeked around to see Harry. “Harry, mate, Dean’s gonna—!”

“I’ll take his place!” announces Lisa Turpin, a girl in which he had never known but now knew with nothing but annoyance.

With her lips pursed, Parkinson glanced at the girl with narrowed eyes. “I’m afraid that such a thing doesn’t go along with the rules, Turpin.”

“But someone should be allowed to do the dares no one wants to do,” Turpin argues, persistent in her ability to make Malfoy take off her short blue mini skirt or her white three hour shirt.

Malfoy was not all that accommodating. “Funnily enough, I find myself too inclined to disagree with you, Turpin.” Harry resisted the urge to smile triumphant at the inflated brunette. Yet his resistance meant nothing, the rebellion continuing even with Malfoy’s verbal contrast.

“The dared don’t have a say so,” Padma comments, with a casual shrug. There were other murmurs of agreements and Parkinson pursed her lips even harder. “Which means this doesn’t seem like a bad idea.”

Her red nails were clenched in her lap. “Well, if that’s what the people—!”

“I’ll do it,” Harry announces, and if he seems too eager he adds, “It’s just a game.” It’s a lame excuse; maybe the saddest he’s ever told in his life, he knows this, yes. He can’t stop himself from looking Parkinson (maybe a little at Turpin too, but no one had to know that except those two) in the eye, challenging her in the form of a stare. Her pale lips form into a predicted grin.

Ron’s face reddens and he jerks forward. “Mate—!”

“Merlin, Weasley, Potter’s a big boy now. He can make his own decisions,” snarks Malfoy, whose eyes are bright, whose lips are curled. Harry wants to simultaneously bite him and kiss—maybe both.

There’s a laugh in the midst of their stunned silence. They shouldn’t be surprised at this point—Harry would never lose to Malfoy. Not in a fight, not in bed, not here. And yet, Harry could feel the sharp gaze of Malfoy’s eyes prodding at his chest like a thousand battles of defeat.

But Harry’s a brave bloke, borderline stupid almost, so he’s stubborn when he faces Malfoy’s stare. “Are you scared or something?” Ron erupts beside him and Hermione stiffens, seeming to expect Malfoy to burst as well. But Harry knew Malfoy, and he knew that whether he had said the right thing or the wrong thing, the sole sentence that he would receive was—

A small quirk of Malfoy’s lip was a paradox. “You wish,” was a cool blessing.

Ron was essentially a combusted and confused boy. If Harry listened close, he could hear a stream of, “What the fuck. What bloody fuck is this? Oh, bloody hell.” However, Harry wasn’t listening. His heart was in his ears, and all he could hear was the unsteady thump of his beating heart while Malfoy inched closer.

Harry swallowed when Malfoy, the graceful git, knelt down in front of him, his throat parched and breaths unable to come out the proper way. When had he given this boy so much power over him? And why? Harry felt the tickle of Malfoy’s breath against his ear when the other leaned forward to say. “Lift your arms.”

_Oh._

_I remember now._

It was almost too easy to give up everything for Malfoy, and maybe that’s why he did it. For the effortlessness in his accountability.

Harry lifted his arms, trying not to jump when Malfoy’s cool fingers touched his waist. His white button up was rolled up to his elbows, and all Harry could see was the black trousers that came with their school uniform. All he could see was the muscles forearms that would manhandle Harry when he needed it on occasion. He licked his lips and glanced up to find two dark gray eyes flashing bright.

 _Well, fuck._ When he saw him looking, his lips twitched as if contemplating on whether to forfeit the smugness and just smile (or sneer—he never knew with this man).

Somehow, Harry forgot Malfoy was such a bastard, because his ears were ringing from how fast his glasses were snatched off. There was a rising self-satisfied smile forming on Malfoy’s face—cooperating with the twinkle of sordid amusement in his eyes.

He loved it—he hated it.

Malfoy lets Harry's glasses fall into his lap with a flop, and he swears he might kill him one of these days. “Don’t be so perverted, Potter.” There’s a sigh of relief beside him when Malfoy whirls around back to his seat.

Ron claps him on the shoulder, “Thought you were gonna punch him right in his smug face for a minute.” Harry’s hands pause in their attempt to put his crooked glasses back on.

There’s a guilty look on Harry's face, and it was there for the wrong reason. “You were, weren’t you, you cheeky bint!” Ron guffaws loud, rough when he reaches over it tap his shoulder. Harry flushes, ducking his head to watch as the bottle spun, because he wasn’t.

“You know,” Parkinson hums, leaning back on her elbows to pinpoint Harry with her gaze. “I’d like to see what the Chosen One’s got hiding in his closet.”

“Well, too bad Parkinson! Harry’s not gonna..” Ron splutters, his head whirling from the bottle pointing at Harry to Parkinson. He points at her with accusing eyes. “You did that didn’t you!”

“Did what, Weasley?” She tilts her head, a picture of innocence. “You shouldn’t hold up the game—Neville’s got an interesting one planned for us after Harry’s turn.”

“I do?” Neville questions. He flinches when she reaches over Malfoy to pat his thigh.

“Why, of course, Neville.”

“But—you—I…” he turns to Harry, eyes wide and worried. Hermione pulls Harry down with a fast jerk, ignoring his cries of pain to smile at him.

“I’m certain whatever you pick will be fine,” she soothes, informing him like a mother that needed to calm her child down. “But, remember, you don’t have to play if you don’t want to.” Harry begins to feel the hard weight of the game on him. It was entertaining, truly, it was, but it was also there to learn everything about everyone.

Parkinson’s dumb party games had a morbid cleverness to them, and Harry was half-anxious and half-disturbed when he thought about it. Anxious because her final goal wasn’t to have a good time: it was to ruin him.

She knew, and she hated it. She knew, and every time she saw the two of them together her nostrils would flare. Because Draco didn’t know that she knew.

Pansy Parkinson hated him with everything in her being, but she also respected him. This was her one plan, and her final plan, to bring him down without the mass-destruction that came with it.

He would not let her win. “Truth.” A crinkled, white paper was scratchy in his hand, but he read on anyway.

_When did you lose it?_

“You guys couldn’t have gotten more creative with these questions?” Blaise commented.

“Lose it?” Harry glances away from the sparkles in the air to stare at Hermione in question. “Lose what?”

“He’s hopeless,” Seamus whines, falling back onto Dean. Dean pinches him, and, with a yelp, he flies back upward.

There’s a kind of fondness that Harry can’t transfer back in Hermione’s expression. It crumbles when Ron’s loud voice sounds over her shoulders. “Sex, Harry! It means sex!” His face colours faster than the speed at which Hermione clips Ron in the chest.

“I—um…”

“Oh, have you never had it then?” She’s mocking him; they both knew he had.

“Oi! If the lad’s never done it, get off his back,” Seamus snaps, gaining the support of others in their quiet silence.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, throwing a nervous glance at Harry as he adds just as quick, “Not that I’ve ever doubted for a second that you haven’t or anything.”

“Harry doesn’t have to answer you, Parkinson! He’s without a doubt—!”

“During the summer…” Harry licks his lips as all eyes land to him. “The summer before Sixth Year.”

He wishes he hadn’t been so hasty and rushed; and, to him, sometimes he fell asleep wondering what life would be like if it were Malfoy.

(“What if you had taken my virginity?” He’d asked Draco one day, caressing the blond strands as his abdomen was kissed with that unique sense of post-orgasm laziness. Malfoy had hummed onto his navel, “I don’t think I could’ve done it.” When Harry had asked why, he told him, “You were beautiful then, in an odd way. In a way that I wouldn’t have been able to ruin,” he appeared uncomfortable when he added, with a sneer, “Besides, I like you this way. Even if you are a little shit sometimes.” He earned himself a rather disgusting kiss)

Ron whips around mid-yell to look at him. “Wha..?”

“I’m surprised, Potter,” _No, you’re not._ “I figured you’d be the type to wait until marriage.”

“Guess I’m not what you thought I was then,” He earns himself a rather disgustingly half-concealed smile.

Seamus, tongue loose and shameless after 4 pints, points out, “I thought he was a virgin.”

“Well, I’m not,” Harry bites, turning to Neville. Whenever he thought about the body count, he’d feel a sudden bout of shame course through him. Neville was watching Parkinson with wary eyes when Harry spoke to him. “What are we supposed to be playing now?”

Neville jumps, taking his eyes off of Parkinson to meet Harry’s stare. “Dean suggested Never Have I Ever.”

* * *

Everything was hot all over.

Pansy burned—her heart pounded, her eyes stung. She was ignited. Her nails dig into her palms; the dirt, the bedroom door, the curtains. The way they moved hurt her so bad, and yet she couldn’t quite speak her mind.

Because, though Potter would never be good enough, she could almost always see the way Draco’s eyes lit up when they were close.

* * *

  
  


“Never Have I Ever drunken butterbeer,” Seamus’ voice is excited, his butterbeer jostling by his side from his jittering.

Dean sighs, “For the last time, Seamus, you’re supposed to say things you haven’t done.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll go start us off, and then maybe you’ll understand it better.”

Though he deflated, Seamus nods.

“Never Have I Ever slept with two people at once,” Deans says, turning to Seamus. “And then, the people who have..”

Harry heard eyes digging into his skull as he began to unwrap the caramel toffee (Parkinson wanted them to ‘taste the flavorful decisions’ they’ve all made). “I Have,” he says, per protocol and choosing to ignore the baffled looks he was getting. He couldn’t hide it even if he wanted to, due to the compulsory drinks they gulped down before.

He doesn’t like to think back to how messed up he was after Sirius’ death. He’d go out about everyday and try to forget; it never took much work to find someone to warm his bed.

Seamus went next, and Harry felt everything he’d ever felt after Sirius had died in the few seconds before he spoke.

He felt the loneliness and cold dark ache in his chest— _the wet hands, the wet mouths, the wet tears._ Everything he did was futile, because when the night was over, when he limped home with dried come on his back or in between his thighs, he was still feeling. He gave them anything they wanted just to remember something else for one night; even if it was pain or empty pleasure.

Living was a kind of suffering after Sirius had passed away.

“Never Have I Ever…” Seamus’ eyes light up. “Never Have I Ever been shy during sex.” He wiggles his eyebrows, laughing as Dean shoved him aside. Several ‘I Have’s went around the room, though some tried to be sneak and unwrap their candies.

Harry had never been the shy type during sex. He didn’t come to be shy and cover his face or flush to his throat in bashfulness, no, he came for the fucking. No one he had sex with had ever, ever wanted to do it slow and loving—no one before Malfoy.

Sometimes, when his knees were to Malfoy’s ribs and his thighs were sliding against his hip bones, Harry felt shy. Sometimes, when Malfoy kissed his neck or slowly rolled his hips, Harry felt shy. Sometimes, when Malfoy told him he loved him to his thighs or to his chest or to his eyes, Harry felt shy.

Sometimes, when he sobbed out _draco, love you; I love you, draco,_ Harry felt shy.

This is why he begins unwrapping his candy, reddening when Hermione and Ron did as well. He hung his head when Malfoy started at his first piece too. No matter how many times the other told him otherwise, deep down Harry thought of himself as a whore. It did lessen everyday with his kisses—i’ll never let you go—and his touches. Because those were special; they were intimate and rare and they were Harry’s.

Someday they’d do something Harry knew and Malfoy didn’t, and he’d be excited. There were a narrow number of things that Malfoy wasn’t confident in, and Harry needed to outright take advantage of them.

“I didn’t think you could even put Malfoy and shy in a sentence!” It’s sad that Seamus looks awed and mystified.

“I’m all but confident that I’m speaking to a drunk, so I’m going to choose not to respond.” His expression was disgusted when he gave Seamus a once over. Seamus narrows his eyes—christ, Harry had a love-hate relationship with drunk Seamus—and shoots him an unfavorable hand gesture..

Malfoy breaks his rules. “Merlin, it’s like you breathe ignorance.”

“Maybe you should come breathe it too, Malfoy. It’ll do you some good to see what a real man breathes like, since, you know, you’re shy in bed.”

Malfoy snarled, but whatever scathing response he’d been prepared to throw out was diminished by Parkinson.

Parkinson’s face was stricken—perhaps the news that the all-confident Draco Malfoy she’s known all her life wasn’t so all-confident had broken her. Harry’s lips twitched; no, it was the fact that Harry (and maybe his parents and a select few others, but he wasn’t choosy) was the person who could bring out something she couldn’t in him.

“I’ll go,” Her jaw clenches when she glowers at him. “Never Have I Ever had sex more than once in a day.” Harry knows she’s targeting him; knows she thinks he’s a whore as well. And maybe that’s why she hates him. Because she’s afraid for Malfoy.

He thinks Malfoy has caught on at this point because stiffens, defensive sneer melting away into subtle bafflement when Parkinson says her Never Have I Ever. Harry’s in the middle of unwrapping his candy with several others, and Malfoy, when he sees him lean over and whisper something in her ear. They’re having a heated conversation, but Harry’s attention is snatched when Ron nudges him with a laugh.

He forces a laugh, always in the position to nod along.

Hermione’s staring at him when Ron clears his throat. “I’ve got one! I’ve got one…” He blinks for a second, taking a look at his and Hermione’s equal candy sets. “Never Have I Ever been in love.” He’s too satisfied when Hermione rolls her eyes with a huff and starts unwrapping one of hers along with him.

“Ew!” Seamus exclaims when even Dean and Neville begin unwrapping theirs as well. “I swear to Merlin I hate you couples who do these sorts of coupley things!” He’s shoved aside with a ‘shut up’ from Dean, and a squeak from Neville. Harry begins to laugh at the scene, when a disgruntled noise comes from Ron.

Ron stares at him with disbelief. “You’ve been in love, Harry?”

“I—yeah..” Harry doesn’t add any details, because he didn’t think there would be questions like this. But at this point it’s his own fault for staying. Ron doesn’t say anything more, and neither does Seamus or Dean.

“And you were never gonna tell me?” There was a certain distinction of hurt in his tone, and it makes Harry’s insides tremble. There was a clench in his stomach, but he couldn’t say anything more because he wasn’t ready. Harry wasn’t ready to come out yet.

“When did you even have time to do this stuff, Harry?” Lisa asks Harry, tilting her head as she sucks on her candy. Harry notes that they both have the same amount of candy left. “Like, I’ve never even heard you were in a relationship other than that Cho girl! But now I hear you’ve been doing loads of things like sex and—!” She has the same had candy wrappers as he had.

“When did you?” If there was a tone of rudeness in his voice, Harry swears he didn’t mean to put it in there. He was frustrated at this point; hating the way Ron and Hermione eyed him. Seamus and the others couldn’t be bothered by him not sharing these kinds of things with them.

His skin was itching and he wanted to leave.

“Oh,” she blinks, turning away with a flush in her cheeks. “Well, I—!”

“Never Have I Ever been in a serious relationship,” Zabini announced, a satisfied smile on his face as Ron, Harry, Hermione, Dean, and Malfoy start in on their candy. “Who tied you down, Draco? Was it you, Parkinson?” He nudges Malfoy, and a surge of anger rises at the implication. “You were busy getting tied down, eh?”

Parkinson is the picture of innocence when she pats Malfoy’s shoulder and looks Harry right in his eye. “You’ll have to find out yourself, Blaise. Draco’s a little shy.”

Harry breaks. He was tired of Parkinson’s games and her smile and just fucking _her._ At that moment—through the warm curl on his chest and the teetering edge of his vision—he wanted her gone. “Never Have I Ever watched a friend have sex.” The boisterous laughs were muted in an instant, and it was silent. But Harry had eyes for Parkinson.

Malfoy was watching them both, face incredulous as Parkinson began to unwrap her candy in shame. There’s a fire in his eyes—Harry knows he will pay for it. He ignores his burning gaze—Harry knows he will pay for it—feeling a sense of accomplishment as Turpin flushes against her wrapper as well.

Yet then they make do eye contact, and Harry begins paying for it with the look of coldness he gets. The accomplishment fades and there is a rising mortification settling in its place.

“Well,” Seamus says into the quiet. “I, erm, hadn’t expected that.” He clears his throat shifting to give Harry a weak air pump through the stifling awkwardness they’d created. Ron doesn’t give him a glance, and his jaw was set which meant some heavy apologies on Harry’s part. “Good on you, Har—!”

“Never Have I Ever been eaten out,” Parkinson calls out; Harry sees the way her body shifts towards his boyfriend and, oh, how he seethes at her last comment. “But I’m planning to.”

He throws his wrapper to the ground with gritted teeth. “Never Have I Ever been in love with my best friend.”

And suddenly, his fingers couldn’t quite keep up as they threw—insults? he didn’t know—out Never Have I Ever’s. Malfoy’s conflicted face was a blur for him in his anger—the blond said something, but it was missed.

“I… did I miss something?” Seamus asks in the background, turning to glance at Ron and Dean in confusion. “Did we miss something?”

“I think they’re… fighting,” Neville replies, his eyes wide as their snark continued.

“Maybe.. they had a disagreement before this,” Dean supplies, as he and Hermione share a second to stare at them. Ron grumbles when she nudges him, albeit slow and quiet before shrugging and fingering his denims that she bought him.

Hermione shakes her head, sighing. “Alright, you two, it’s time to stop—!”

Maybe it was the way the stars had been aligned that very night. Maybe it was the way electricity bounced off of his fingertips as he spat out something rude— _vulgar, blue, because she wasn’t the person draco fell in love with: he was. how could she call him a slag and a whore when she didn’t wake up to a morning that murmured a soft, and warm, ‘i love you’. how could she love what would never be hers to love_ —to Parkinson. But Harry knew otherwise, because he knew, without a doubt, that it had been when Malfoy took a long look at them both with something hot and heavy that settled over their hearts and consciousness.

Harry backed down of course, not wanting to do more damage than he’d already done. Why had he let his bitterness allow him to be so hurtful and rude? As his beating heart pounded, and slowed, he was washed over with shame and guilt. Had he been so overcome that he’d outed Parkinson’s feelings to the public?

He opened his mouth, to apologize, to ask her to leave with him, to—

“Never Have I Ever slept with Draco Malfoy,” Parkinson called out, her face pinched and pink and she looked as though she had nothing to lose. “Never Have I Ever been intimate with Draco Malfoy! Never Have I Ever snuck out of my dormitory to see Draco Malfoy! Never Have I Ever—!”

—to shout, He could feel his eyes burning with tears and indignation, because he could taste the wheels cracking in his head. They were both breathing hard, and the crazed gaze she’d squired was gone. Now, panic was shown as he stumbled backwards into his chair.

“You’re gay?” Ron doesn’t look for confirmation, soHarry doesn’t give it to him. His body wants to move, but he stares at the floor, head hanging and body burning. It was as if someone had stolen all of the air from his stomach—as if Parkinson had just ripped his very soul from his body. “Fuck, you’re gay.”

Hermione can’t even bring herself to admonish him for his tone, because she’s too busy staring at Harry with wide eyes.

Harry thinks he might just throw up.

There was a soft thud; Ron’s head was laying on the dull red cushions of the sofa behind him. “Anything else you wanna tell us? Something else you would never tell us under different circumstances?”

He didn’t want to talk. Too much was happening at once, and in reality he just wanted to curl up and scream. His stomach dropped; _and scream and scream and scream._ When he looked away from the floor—his chest caving with heavy pumps and his mind fizzling out—he was attempting to swallow down a yell.

Even with their eyes on him, he couldn’t do anything but sit quiet and alone.

“What, so, you’re fucking Malfoy?” Ron wasn’t staring at him, but his lips were quivering up into a nasty smile. And it wasn’t a smile either, it just seemed to sit there. Like it didn’t belong there but was forced upon his face by the situational shock it’s owner had to endure. His hands were rough in his hair. “Merlin, this is fucked up.”

There were a few shifts, and he didn’t have to glance up to see Lisa Turpin, Padma, and a few others getting up to leave. “We, uh, just thought we’d leave it to you.” They’re given soft good nights; their quiet shuffles were silenced by the click of the Room of Requirements entrance door.

Harry thought about their exit is how stressful it would be if everyone in Hogwarts were to know what had occurred tonight.

“Are you going to sit there quiet the entire time?” His ears were ringing—he could still hear Ron’s anger in the background. He could still hear Malfoy’s crisp voice.

“How about we talk like rational people?” Hermione suggests, eyes darting from Harry to Ron.

Ron appears more furious at her proposal. “Like hell—!”

Sometimes Harry forgets how possessive they each become over each other. Not as if they were both property to be displayed or owned, but as if they were Harry’s and Draco’s selves that needed to be held close. And Harry would never allow himself, or anyone else, to be embraced by heavy chains.

“I’m certain you can manage even the tiniest bit of rationality, Weasley.” Malfoy’s tone draws the attention of most of the occupants in the room—Harry included. “I mean, you must be good for something if not this, right?”

Ron’s fists curled tight when he whirled around to face Malfoy. “This conversation has nothing to do with you, Malfoy! Merlin, you’re the noisiest knob I’ve ever met!”

He makes the perfect picture of displeasure—his lips drawn shut and his hands clenched on his trousers. “You’re forgetting this conversation has everything to do with me.”

“You don’t have anything to do with this conversation, _ferret_! Harry would never touch you!” Hermione has to pull Ron back from knocking him sideways with his fist, and her face showed neither anger nor joy.

Draco scoffed, “He never fucked me.” If Harry weren’t near-shaking, he could only imagine the eye roll Draco would’ve gotten from him. “And I thought it’d be rather obvious—you’ve even said it yourself.”

“Eh?”

Sometimes Harry hated how puffed up Draco could get, even at times like these. “Because I’m the one who’s fucking him.”

* * *

Everything was so cold all over.

Draco burned—a brutal frostbite, a creaking heartbeat. He was an inferno of ice. His breathing was cold against the empty dent beside him; the blank space, the gaping faces, the shocked places of people that didn’t even fucking matter to him. Harry was his, and he’d never let the bastard leave him no matter how hard it took to pry Weasley’s hands away from his gaping heart.

Because, Merlin, even when he bloody hated the prick he still would never be able to get his horrible kisses off his mind.


End file.
